


no one's going to save you

by ishie



Category: 30 Rock
Genre: 1000-5000 Words, 2009, Community: thoughtsicles, F/M, First Time, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-01
Updated: 2009-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-05 11:10:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishie/pseuds/ishie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somehow, when Liz had pictured the first time she doinked Jack Donaghy - and yes, she'd pictured it, and <i>gross</i>, and <i>shut up</i> - she had failed to imagine that the deed itself would take place to the thrilling strains of "Thriller" on repeat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	no one's going to save you

**Author's Note:**

> First time writing "30 Rock" so of course it turned into crackfic. I blame nostalgic!music weekends and too many days off.
> 
> Prompts from [thoughtsicles](http://community.livejournal.com/thoughtsicles): Jack/Liz, you shook me all night long
> 
> Thanks to Chaya for the beta!

Somehow, when Liz had pictured the first time she doinked Jack Donaghy - and _yes_, she'd pictured it, and _gross_, and _shut up_ \- she had failed to imagine that the deed itself would take place to the thrilling strains of "Thriller" on repeat.

Even in her own head-narration, she scowled at the poor word choice and mentally endured a good thirty seconds of snickering from Frank. Then she realized she'd accidentally let Frank into her head while she was doing it and cried, "Ugh, what the _what_?"

Jack mumbled some kind of a reply but she couldn't hear exactly what he said because his mouth was actually busy with- Well. It was... Let's just say that sometimes words feel better than they sound and, oh _gross_ why was she talking about this, even in her head! That was sex talk, and she was really not okay with that.

What she was comfortable with was the doinking, which was surprising in and of itself, even without Jack as the doink_er_. And, yeah, whatever, they weren't actually doinking yet but oh boy, they were about to do some sex. Were they ever!

Okay, and there was actually an explanation for the "Thriller" which almost made sense if she forgot that she was spread across Jack's desk in his office while he was ... doing what he was doing.

"I know all of this already, Lemon," Jack said as he lifted his head and her hands fell away from his hair. "And this is technically sex we're having right now, even though my penis is still nowhere near to your-"

Liz jerked awake in her office, shouting, "Okay, shut it down!" Luckily, it was well after happy hour started so the entire sixth floor was deserted. Except for Cleaning Guy and Other Cleaning Guy, but she wasn't too worried. Not after the way she'd rescued them from Jenna those times! Maybe she would stop by their cart on the way out to remind them.

She peeled a candy bar wrapper from her face while stabbing the pause button and yanking out the earbuds. As soon as she could con one of Pete's kids into showing her how to delete stuff off the iPod, she was so banishing Michael Jackson to that 80s radio station she totally didn't listen to while she didn't drunkenly leaf through old yearbooks.

On the plus side, a limited time CD collection called "Inappropriate Make-out Music 2009" might make a pretty good fakemercial to pad out an upcoming episode.

"Does Sheinhardt own Time-Life yet?" she wondered aloud. Maybe she could kill two birds and get one of those stupid pos-mens out of the way at the same time. "Or Dick Clark?"

"Not yet, but we're getting close. He can't run from us much longer," came a raspy voice from her doorway.

"I ... don't really think that's something you're allowed to say about a stroke victim." She kept her eyes trained on her keyboard and clacked keys randomly in a desperate attempt to look like she was working. It took all of her concentration to maintain a semi-calm outward demeanor. On the inside, she was completely freaking out. What if he really could read her mind, and not in a Tracy kind of way? _The dream! Think about anything but the dream!_

"Not about a real stroke victim, anyway," Jack agreed.

Probably she was imagining it but his tone seemed heavy with rich-people-secret-meaning and she couldn't help it, she had to look at him. She could feel the _is this guy for real?_ face forming and she was powerless against it.

He was standing in the doorway, holding a box of Twinkies, and wearing the ill-fated Lemon Christmas Party sweater. And no pants. There were boxers, thank God, and black socks with those calf-suspender things which somehow did _not_ make him look completely ridiculous, but no pants.  
  
Okay, ignoring the whole pantsless thing, which she desperately wanted to do, what was he doing here anyway? It was after six, so he should have already been in a tux and out doing whatever fancy network executives did on a Thursday night. She assumed it didn't have anything to do with eating Ben &amp; Jerry's and watching ER's final episodes.

"I'm just doing a brief executive tour while Jonathan fetches one of my replacement tuxedos. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get brandied Grenyarnian fig stains out of a Brioni?" He looked at her expectantly before giving a short bark of laughter. "I'm sorry; of course you wouldn't!"

Since she didn't understand the context for, like, half the words he'd used, Liz made a face instead and waved a hand somewhat in the direction of his down there area. "Why not pants on?"

Ugh, what was wrong with her? It wasn't as though he'd walked in with another free-jet-ride-and-popcorn offer. So what if he was in his underwear! Who cared? She certainly didn't! She barely even noticed that she could almost see parts of him that had been close to- _Shut it down!_

Jack glanced down as though he'd forgotten that he was walking around half-dressed. "Not everyone keeps an emergency change of clothes in case lunch doesn't make it all the way into their mouth."

While he turned to look at one of the old Chicago _Girlie Show_ posters she had tacked up by the door, she slowly zipped her sweatshirt up another inch to hide the salad dressing stain.

"I did have an emergency suit here at one point," he added, "but it disappeared when Kathy moved into the office."

Liz thought it more likely to be decorating some whackadoo shrine in Jonathan's loft. Then she started to zone out, thinking Josh and Tracy would be good in an _America's Next Top Stalker_ sketch and whether she could get it past Standards, or whether it would get picked up as a summer reality show instead.

While she did, Jack crossed from the door to her desk and sat on the edge near her left arm. He held the box in his lap and ripped the top off.

She sucked in a startled breath, which she immediately regretted as the surprisingly delicious scents of both his aftershave and snack cakes of dubious origin filled her nose. Jack leaned toward her, tilting the box to better display the individually wrapped Twinkies as he did.

He dropped his voice to a near whisper and said, "We both know that no mere mortal can resist," as she swayed toward him. Um, toward the _Twinkies_. It was the sugar no mere mortal could resist, not the heat radiating off of his bare thigh under her palm because she absolutely could resist that kind of thing.

And it certainly wasn't the groan Jack made when she sucked moist crumbs off his thumb, or the pressure of his hand on her back as he pushed her shirt out of the way with the other and licked his way up to her neck. Nor, for that matter, was it the rub of his Christmas sweater across her boobs as she tried to wrap herself around him after they fell onto the couch. All 110% resistible!

The flutters in her swimsuit area had absolutely nothing to do with anything except possibly impending cramps, she told herself as she jerked awake again, this time in her bed.

"Son of a mother!"

She smacked the alarm clock and vowed not only to have Pete's kids teach her how to clean out her iPod, but also to find a new radio station that would play nice, soothing jazz at her in the morning instead of songs with apparent mind-warping powers.

As she rushed through getting ready for the day, she decided that the "Inappropriate Make-out Music 2009" fakemercial was still a pretty good idea but no way were they going to use any Michael Jackson-esque songs. In fact, pretty much all of Motown and early-80s pop was right out.

Work was relatively hassle-free for a show day (Tracy only sort of kind of assaulted one extra and Jenna didn't once try to use her sexuality as a weapon against anyone, except possibly Toofer but he'd stopped responding to any external stimuli right around lunchtime so that was only about 80% true. Maybe.), so Liz was excited to actually leave the building after the after-party and make a clean escape. One after-after party at the zoo had been her limit. That there were things no one should ever see monkeys do was one of her most recent but most dearly held philosophical beliefs.

The best part of the day, though, had been no Jack. Don Geiss had whisked him off in a business helicopter to a business retreat, probably in some secret business country that only CEOs and their protégés would know about.

Except, suddenly, there was Jack, running down the street toward her. He grabbed her by the hand as he passed and dragged her along behind him toward St Patrick's. Liz pulled against his grip but managed only ragged gasps and the occasional wrenching pain in her shoulder. Finally, Jack slowed and changed direction. He leaped up a set of rickety wooden stairs and broke open the door of a dilapidated house with his shoulder. He disappeared inside and pulled Liz in behind him.

"Wait, what? Where did this house come from? This is where the smoothie place is supposed to be. And what are you wearing? Even I know red leather jackets aren't-"

Jack spun away from the moldy window he'd been peering through and clapped a hand over her mouth. "Shhhhhh," he breathed in her ear, sending tingles into places that Liz promptly ignored. "We need to hide."

"Hide from what?" she tried to mumble around his hand. "Aren't you supposed to be drinking business juice somewhere?"

"Lemon, I can't understand a word you're saying." He marched her backward through what might have been a dining room at one point and into a closet, pulling the door tight behind him. "But yes, I should be in Svenborgia right now on my business retreat and plotting the re-acquisition of the E from Samesung."

"If you couldn't understand what I was saying... You know, never mind. Why are we hiding?"

"The Black Crusaders have unleashed a terrible biological weapon on the city. The recently dead are rising from their graves and descending upon the innocent, spreading destruction and undeath in their wake. I think Vincent Price might have been reanimated to become their leader."

"So... you're saying we're hiding from zombies, basically."

Jack gave her a weary look, the same one he'd last used when she tried to lobby for a new vending machine to replace her couch. "Don Geiss is dead; I destroyed his brain myself."

"Eww."

"Yes. But I feel it was truly a defining moment in our professional relationship."

"I'll say."

"When he was trying to gnaw off my jaw and my hands actually slipped into his cranial cavity, it felt as though years of-"

Liz jammed a hand over his mouth and hissed, "I thought we were hiding! Stop talking!"

He blinked in acquiescence, and she tried not to notice how tightly they were wedged against each other in the narrow closet. She also tried not to notice how his lips felt under her hand, and how her still-labored breathing was pressing her chest against his. While she was trying not to notice all of that, she was distracted suddenly by ignoring that she'd stopped trying to keep him quiet with her hand and was now attempting it with her tongue, while simultaneously trying to wrestle his red leather jacket down his arms, which were now attached to her boobs by his hands.

So it stood to reason that she was taken completely by surprise by Jack lifting one of her legs to wrap around his waist and pushing her back up against the wall. And it was a couple of seconds after that that she realized her clothes and his had magically disappeared. And two of his fingers were inside her and his thumb was circling and she was moaning in a totally-inappropriate-for-hiding-from-zombies way. And then he hitched her leg up higher and drove into her and she was doinking Jack Donaghy. In a closet. While hiding from zombies. _Standing up!_

And then she didn't realize anything for quite a while, until Jack lifted his head from where it had fallen heavily against her boobs and whispered, "Now is the time for you and I to cuddle close together."

"Aww, _crapballs_," she muttered as she recognized the lyric and rolled over to pull her pillow over her head.

She called in and left a voicemail for Cerie that she would be late due to a very important and completely business-related errand, which she hoped no one would actually bother to play before she showed up to erase it. Her next call was to Dr Spaceman, who fit her in for an appointment right away. She would have called, oh, any other doctor in the city but, due to a recent unfortunate misunderstanding about what learning how to do a breast self-exam actually meant, she was pretty sure none of them would take her call.

Spaceman listened to her for a full six words (completely ruining all the cover story brainstorming she'd done on the subway (though it could still come in handy if Jenna suddenly developed Jack-like mind-reading powers)) before nodding thoughtfully or trying to shake something out of his hair. He scribbled on a prescription pad and gave her a handful of aqua pills he'd pulled from his pants pocket. She downed two with a Snapple before she'd left his office, and popped a third when she caught herself belting out "'cause this is Thriller!" in an almost-empty elevator once she got to work. Jenna gave her a thumbs-up and a "that was almost the right pitch!"

By the time Jack called her up to his office for a last-minute pow-wow before he left on his business retreat with Don Geiss, things were finally looking up for ol' Liz Lemon. She hadn't thought about Michael Jackson, or zombies, or imaginary, evil-brain dream sex with Jack Donaghy (_standing up!_) in hours and everything around her had a lovely rainbow-tinted squishy look, even with her glasses on. And Tracy's scary Blue Dude wasn't really that scary at all! He was just misunderstood!

Jonathan waved her into Jack's office with only a single snide remark. She sailed through the door on a wave of triumph, only to be stopped short by a large, hairy bear that had apparently eaten Jack and put on his suit pants afterward.

She screamed and threw one of her shoes at the bear, who caught it and said, "Excellent choice, Lemon. You're getting much closer to the 'only makes out with girls when drunk in college' end of the spectrum."

"...Jack? Are you talking to me from inside the _bear's stomach_?"

"I'm not even going to pretend to know what you're talking about," said the bear. "And I do apologize for my state of dress. You've probably never seen what a truly virile man's chest looks like, and while some might describe me as hirsute, I prefer to think of it as simply another way to advertise my sexual potency. In any case, the helicopter will be here in ten minutes and I've only just now been able to change into my business retreat business-casual shirt."

And then it got even weirder, with the bear putting on an artfully-ripped red leather jacket, turning into a werewolf, and then making out with her on Jack's desk while a bunch of inmates in orange jumpsuits moonwalked around the office and Michael Jackson serenaded them from a passing helicopter.

Liz didn't even lift her head off the couch before she shoved her laptop off the coffee table. That was the absolute last time she opened any YouTube videos after eating an entire Meat Lover's Pizza, she swore to herself. (But maybe before their next live variety show, she'd find out which of those prisoners had choreographed the dance sequences and if he was eligible for any kind of work-release program.)

Her bedroom door creaked open and she was halfway through groaning that she'd forgotten to steal some WD-40 for the hinges from set design when she heard an awful, stupid, jerk voice rumble:

"Lemon, have you seen my pants?"

**Author's Note:**

> Started: 28 December 2008  
> Finished: 01 January 2009


End file.
